Expectations
by TooOftenObsessed
Summary: Following the events of the S5 Christmas Special. Mrs. Hughes fears that Mr. Carson may have the wrong idea about what their new arrangement means. Will go to M in later chapters. Carson/Hughes
1. Expectation

It had been months. Two, nearly three, and nothing had changed. She didn't want a change, not really, not much. There was only one thing that was missing, and she found (to her modest surprise) that she could not do without.

She glanced down the hallway, and saw that no one was paying any attention to her. Not that they would have thought anything if they had been; she spent almost every evening in the butler's pantry, and not to go in would have been a disruption of routine. She stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind her. Carson was reading the evening paper, apparently engrossed. He looked up at the sound of the door closing.

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes. Everything is settled, I take it?"

"Yes, the family are all gone to bed, and Daisy and Mrs. Patmore are finishing up in the kitchen."

"Excellent. I like a quiet evening, don't you?" He smiled at her a little, and she paused, a small frown on her face. "Is everything all right, Mrs. Hughes?" She was quiet a moment longer.

"I'm not so sure that it is, Mr. Carson. I'm afraid that our… arrangement… may not have been made with the same intentions on both sides." She pursed her lips, afraid of his reaction. He folded the paper and placed it on the table at his side.

"I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Hughes, but I am not sure quite what you mean."

She walked closer to him, holding his eyes as he looked up at her from his seated position. Quickly, before she lost her nerve, Elsie reached out and held his chin in her hand. She leaned forward and lightly, chastely, touched her lips to his. There was no heat in this kiss, no passion, not a hint of the emotional storm that was raging within her. She had crossed a line that he would not, could not, have crossed himself, and there was no way to know if he would now beat a hasty retreat.

Carson made no sound, nor did he move, and after only a moment Elsie pulled away. She stood as tall and straight as she ever did, but her cheeks betrayed her with a dull pink flush.

"Mr. Carson, if you are planning on a lifetime of quiet evenings, companionable fireside chats followed by a cordial retreat to separate bedrooms, then perhaps we had better call the whole thing off." He looked away from her, breaking eye contact for the first time since he'd looked up from his paper, and he slowly stood, staring at the floor.

"Mrs. Hughes, if I have given offence, I must beg your forgiveness." She rolled her eyes, waiting for the rest of his ridiculously formal apology. It did not come. Instead, he gently touched her elbow, and haltingly leaned in to place a rather clumsy kiss on the corner of her mouth. He stepped back, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floorboards just behind her left foot, and said nothing.

She ducked into his line of sight, catching his eyes again, and smiled a cheeky smile to hide her relief.

"That'll do just fine, Mr. Carson. Care for some sherry?" Without waiting for an answer, she went to the cupboard for the glasses.

"I would." He sighed, apparently relieved as well. "Mrs. Hughes?" She looked back over her shoulder at him. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should leave talk of… ah… bedrooms… separate or otherwise… for a later date." She smiled broadly.

"Of course, Mr. Carson."


	2. Temptation

As always, Carson heard the jingle of her keys before he saw her. It felt strange, not to have to suppress the way his heart leapt in advance her arrival. It was somewhat disconcerting to feel jittery in her presence, given that they had been close friends and confidantes for years, but it wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation. Still, he rather wished his pulse would slow.

Although it was he who had proposed the idea of marriage to her, he had done so out of desperation. Mrs. Patmore's quaint little house had stirred in him (surprisingly) pleasant thoughts of his own retirement. It was only when he realized that retirement meant not just freedom from his duties, but an inability to regularly share in the company of Mrs. Hughes, that he came up with the joint investment idea. He had been able to lie to himself while they were looking at houses, telling himself it was nothing more than a pragmatic business venture to be undertaken with a trusted friend; however when Mrs. Hughes revealed the extent of her financial burden to her sister, it had sparked in him a panic that could not be quelled.

Still, he had convinced himself that marriage was only sensible, a convenient financial arrangement for the sake of continued friendship and a mutually beneficial business venture. He steadfastly refused to acknowledge the honest fact that life without Elsie Hughes held absolutely no appeal to him, regardless of how comfortably situated he was on his own. When she had accepted his offer, he had been relieved, but a few of her words had haunted him.

"_I thought you'd never ask."_

What did that mean? She had seemed happy, but was it the happiness of a woman in love? He doubted that it could be so. One of the things he valued most in her - loved most, though he had been unable to even think it at the time - was her absolute realism, her down-to-earth solidity. Elsie Hughes was not a woman prone to flights of fancy, nor who was easily taken in by romance. So, her pleasure must have been due to her new-found future security. Her words meant that she had, as usual, discovered the perfect solution well before he did.

How wrong he had been. How completely, joyously wrong.

He felt another pleasant wave of nerves as he recalled their exchange of a few nights past. She had come into his pantry and turned the world from merely comfortable into something he had long thought far beyond his grasp. He did his best to hide a smile as he thought of his last, uncharacteristically bold words to her. _Bedrooms, separate or otherwise. _

"Oh, my, what's that cheeky smile all about?" Her quick, steady step carried her through the doorway just at that moment, and he flushed. "Never you mind, Mr. Carson. It's none of my affair." She smiled to match the levity in her voice. Since that night, when she had kissed him, he had been unable to hold her gaze, favoring the floor, his cup of tea, or a newspaper to the almost nauseating sweetness that clenched around his heart when he looked in her eyes.

Tonight, he forced himself to look at her. Her eyes held his for a moment. The sharp tang of embarrassment was slowly replaced by that almost constant buzz of nerves, leaving him struggling to speak normally.

"It's nothing, Mrs. Hughes. I was just lost in a pleasant memory." He tried his best to conceal the nature of the memory, and was unsuccessful. She laughed, seeming self-conscious, and turned away, shutting the door quietly and moving to the cupboard for their glasses. He admired her while her back was turned, finding comfort in the precision of her movements. Long before he loved her - and he must now admit, he did love her - he had taken comfort in her reliability, her efficiency, and her discretion. She held both glasses in one hand, a bottle in the other, and set all three on the little table by his door.

She pulled the stopper and poured, her head bent over her task. As Carson stood to join her, he found himself admiring the nape of her neck, and almost without thinking, placing his hand there. She jumped, knocking a half-full glass off the table and sending it smashing to the carpet.

"Oh, Mr. Carson, I am so sorry, here…" She set down the bottle and grabbed a rag.

"No, no, Mrs. Hughes, please, allow me." He took the rag from her and began blotting at the pool of scarlet that was spreading across the floor. "You go on to bed now; I'll take care of it." He refused to look at her, lest she see the shame burning across his cheeks and ears.

"It's not like me, to be so clumsy, Mr. Carson." He still couldn't look up.

"Of course it isn't, you'll be alright in the morning." He hated himself for the dismissal he heard in his own voice.

"Good night, then, Mr. Carson." He couldn't decipher her tone.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

He couldn't sleep, even though he'd gotten to bed later than usual after cleaning up the spill. He knew, or thought he knew, that should was angry with him. She would be cold, distant, and all too formal. She always made it crystal clear when he was in the wrong, and he knew he had to formulate an apology as soon as possible. Perhaps he could still mitigate some of the damage if he acted quickly.

Still, he couldn't pull his mind away from the sensation of her warm skin and soft hair beneath his fingertips.


	3. Consternation

Elsie closed the door to the butler's pantry, moving through the downstairs hallway as quickly - and quietly - as decorum would allow. Mrs. Patmore was almost certainly still up and about in the kitchen, and Beryl would catch Elsie's distress immediately if she saw her. The tough little cook had a far keener eye than her appearance let on, and Elsie suspected that this was an appearance that Mrs. Patmore cultivated quite on purpose. Nevertheless, Elsie didn't want to speak about Charles Carson to anyone. Not yet.

As she climbed the stairs to head up to the attics, Elsie mulled over what had happened in the pantry. She couldn't fathom why Mr. Carson had sent her away, when they could have had the mess cleared away in a matter of minutes, if that long. It hadn't even reached the rug, so there was that much less work to do. At any other time, at least in the past, he'd have let her help as a matter of course. Now, unfortunately, something had _changed_ between them. And not the something that Elsie had wanted.

Elsie Hughes had prided herself on her relative independence for her entire adult life. She had made herself into the housekeeper of one of the most prominent families in the country, and she wasn't about to give that up to become a housewife. Caring for a house that she had been given because of a marriage would have felt completely artificial to her. Downton was her home because she gave it something worthwhile, and it valued her in return. She had earned her place at Downton; anything else would feel artificial, like cheating. It was why she had turned down Joe Burns' proposal over ten years previously.

Well, that might be half true. Upon closer examination of her feelings at the time, she was surprised to realize that there was a significant underlying factor in her refusal. Buried beneath her staunch pragmatism was the tiniest sliver of an objection to the match, on the grounds that she was in love with someone else.

Elsie heaved out a sigh and unzipped her dress, stepping out of it carefully and draping it over the chair at her vanity. She quickly divested herself of that hated corset - why did everyone else in the bloody house get to be free of them? - and settled into the chair to braid her hair. It was almost embarrassing to think of the years during which she had successfully lied to herself, had convinced herself that her attraction to the tall, stern butler had stemmed only from an unusually potent brand of professional respect. She let out a tiny chuckle to think of her young self, dogging his heels at every turn, learning how to sooth his temper and provoke his frustration without seeming uncouth. Professional respect, indeed. The fondness she had for his rich baritone stemmed from the moment they met, to be sure.

But he could be so terribly frustrating. Her smile faded as she heard the door to his room shut down the hall. She caught her own eye in the mirror and saw the crease between her brows deepen as she remembered his hurried dismissal downstairs. She tasted the sharp, familiar tang of annoyance, and hurriedly stood, blowing out the candle and changing into her nightclothes. He could be so terribly, terribly dense.

Settling into bed, she sighed heavily and closed her eyes. Every time she began to drift, the anger would find a way to resurface and she would have to roll over, unable to stay comfortable. So, she turned to an old standby. She let herself sink deep into a memory, one that always calmed her when she was having trouble sleeping. It was the image of Mr. Carson, polishing silver, and singing merrily to himself.

"_Dashing away with the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away._"

She began to fall asleep in earnest, and as she did, the sweetness of his song mingled with the sense of his warm fingers gently touching the back of her neck.


	4. Reconciliation

Carson slept fitfully, waking almost an hour before his usual time. Though he was tired, his decades as butler had trained him to all but ignore his own fatigue in the service of his duties. Besides, the restless hours he had spent staring into the darkness of his room had not been waste; he knew exactly what he must to do rectify the situation with Mrs. Hughes. A first-rate apology was in order. He had violated the space of the most profoundly civilized woman he had ever known. She had encouraged him to entertain the idea of physical contact _after marriage_, and he had responded like a hormone-driven youth. It was embarrassing to compare his private thoughts, tending almost to the inappropriate, with the perfectly chaste and respectable kiss she had bestowed upon him to make her point.

He touched his lips, as lightly as she had kissed him, and briefly allowed his eyes to close as he thought of that all-too-brief treasure. His chest tightened as he remembered the hot surge of pride he had felt in standing to kiss her, the power and protectiveness that made him want to draw her tiny frame into his arms and shield her from the rest of the world. But Elsie Hughes was not a woman to be shielded.

Abruptly, he sat up in bed, taking a few deep breaths. It was enough to know that he might have that feeling waiting for him in the future. For now, he would apologize for his uncharacteristic impropriety. She would forgive him, though it was likely not to be done without a scolding. He smiled to himself in the pale light of down, hearing that charming brogue amplified in his mind. Her accent always delighted him, even when - no, _especially_ when, though he'd never dare admit it - she was angry.

"Mr. Carson, I don't know where you got the impression that I am a foolish maiden who would consider her virtue sold in exchange for a marriage agreement, but I'll have you know that I should never take part in such a bargain. I am sorely disappointed to discover that you are the type of man who would." He sighed heavily, and vowed again to make it right.

...

Carson had just set out two cups and a kettle of tea when he heard Mrs. Hughes descending the stairs down the hall. She was up as early as he was, it seemed. Perhaps it was his imagination, but to his ears her very footsteps seemed irritated. He braced himself, fingertips resting lightly on the table, and focused his gaze on the doorway. When she came in, she pivoted on her heel and closed the door almost before Carson could blink. He had the vaguest impression of a whirl of skirts and keys before she was standing before him, her gaze burning into his, an expectant and angry look on her face.

"I..." He took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. "I owe you an apology." Without looking up, he heard her take a half step forward.

"I should say you do!" He held up a hand, looking at her as calmly as he could, and she stepped back, folding her arms.

"I overstepped." He had spent half the night searching for the right word to describe his indiscretion. "I never wanted to take advantage of our arrangement, nor did I want to make you feel disrespected in any way. You are the sort of woman who deserves only the highest class of man, and I am ashamed to have made myself into the kind of person who should be beneath your notice. I am ashamed of my behavior, and I understand your outrage. I am very sorry to have made you uncomfortable. I do hope you will forgive me.

She stared at him for a moment, motionless, before she she rolled her eyes, and dramatically placed both hands on her forehead, pulling her eyebrows up toward her hairline.

"Mr. Carson, this is daft, even for you." Startled, he began to bluster out an incoherent response, but she cut him off with a quick swipe of her hand through the air. "I'm not angry with you for startling me - and that's all you did, _startle _me - I'm angry with you for sending me upstairs last night. For heaven's sake," she looked to one side, biting her lip. When she resumed speaking, her voice was almost too quiet to hear. "I'm afraid you'll think less of me, think me wanton." She looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes shining, and he felt his heart stutter in his chest. "I'd have let the spill run out under the door for everyone to see if you'd kept touching me last night."

And then he was holding her, folding her into his arms and running his fingers up the nape of her neck and into her hair. She was so small, so precious, and so his.

"Oh my dear, I could never, ever think less of you. You are by far the finest woman I could ever hope to know." She laughed against his chest, and rested her hands against the lapels of his jacket, gazing up at him with naked adoration.

"Mr. Carson, you can't know how marvelous you really are." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Even if you are a bit thick at times." He kissed her then, softly, and after a moment he risked moving his lips against hers. He tried to pull back, to look at her and make sure she was alright, but her hands were on his shoulders, hoisting herself onto her toes to try to meet his eyes herself. She put a hand on his cheek, drawing him back, and she kissed him with her lips almost parted. He slid his arm around her waist, relishing the shape of her and damning the hard corset separating them at the same time. He stopped to breathe, and the sight of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes was enough to make his breath catch and blood run hotter than before. He took a risk then, pressing his lips against the side of her neck, and was gratified to hear the tiniest gasp escape her usual iron discipline. He rested his cheek on hers and sighed, taking a moment to breathe.

"Perhaps it is time for us to speak to the family." He spoke quietly, deliberately, but let his voice deepen into a soft rumble. She shivered, and it pleased him to know that the timbre of his voice had affected her as deeply as his words.

"Though," he met her eyes, letting a touch of humor creep into his expression. "I might not disapprove of finding my wife a little wanton."


End file.
